


Better

by fauxfillorian



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, I don't know what to tag this, M/M, Soulmates, coffee shop au but not really, it was in my brain, read this if you want a light cry but with fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 09:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxfillorian/pseuds/fauxfillorian
Summary: Years after the Beast has been killed, Quentin has graduated Brakebills and settled into a quiet life, Eliot and Margo are successful rulers of Fillory and two old friends find their way back to each other. Things aren't great, but they're better.





	Better

Quentin had nothing new to share. 

In the almost two years that had passed since he graduated from Brakebills, he’d done nothing good enough to brag about. All the issues and insecurities and things about himself he wished he could change were still a part of him. Well, he was _better_. He always reminded himself that he was better than he was but not good enough to brag. 

He’d gotten for himself a quiet, stable existence working at an insurance company which was dull work but kept him entertained long enough to not go insane from the isolation and mundanity of the rest of his life. He still had Julia. A phone call away but never near enough he felt, Julia had settled into a comfortable life in upper Manhattan in an apartment often vacant as she spent her days at Brakebills teaching wide-eyed, hotheaded young Magicians like she and Quentin used to be. She was single and busy and important and she liked it that way. 

Quentin lived alone. 

In a house. 

It was a big house which was his first mistake. 

Fully furnished, procured with magic – except the utilities’ bills which Quentin paid for himself because he felt guilty and also hated how much money he earned but didn’t get to spend – the house was beautiful. But it always made Quentin a bit sad. 

He’d come home and set his keys on the table by the door and the noise would rattle through the house, echoing off the walls. He would kick his shoes off and they’d clatter to the floor with two loud thumps, the sound echoing off the walls. He would cough, sneeze, clear his throat, and it would echo off the walls, a reminder that no one else lived here. He was all alone. 

It’s not like he hadn’t tried. He’d dated here and there. There was Maggie. There was Jonathan. There were one-night stands. 

There was Amelia. 

She was nice, pretty, was and loved to be a librarian – the non-Magic, non-asshole-y kind. She went to Columbia, she liked fantasy and loved when Quentin talked over movies, explaining his favorite parts and the lore behind them. She mooned over him, she called him in the middle of the day to say she was thinking about him, she comforted and coddled who he was as a person, she gave Quentin every affirmation he’d yearned for over the years. 

But she never argued with him, never challenged him, never surprised him, never did anything to anger him and Quentin found himself bored and distant with her; found himself wishing she were blonder, smarter, more stubborn, less easy…found himself wishing she were Alice. 

Then there was Eric who quite literally fell into Quentin’s lap. Quentin was on the train home from work, so tired that it was one of the days where he was ecstatic he had no one waiting for him at home. He didn’t want to be bothered with another human after the day of paper cuts and quotes and bullshit filings he’d had to sort through at the office. Then the train lurched, knocking several people off balance and sending Eric face first into Quentin’s lap. 

Quentin was crotchety, waved away the man’s apology, allowed his brain to ignore the tell-tale signs of flirting and put his earbuds back in. But Eric, as Quentin would learn over the next three months of their relationship, was determined and ridiculously straightforward, and so he did not leave Quentin alone until he agreed to a dinner date. Eric did this, of course, with complete charm and respect and an annoying amount of charisma and by the time Quentin agreed, he was in a nicer mood and excited to see Eric again. 

And he never stopped being excited to see him. 

Everyday with Eric was like being back at Brakebills. Quentin felt pleasantly lost and questioning. He felt like he was uncovering something new each day. Eric indulged Quentin’s hyper-fascination with Fillory and books and smiled at all his dark jokes, throwing back his own. He was receptive and affectionate, caring but not pandering, upbeat but upfront about his own struggles. He and Quentin fought enough to confirm they both cared about the relationship and made love passionately and often without obligation, judgement or complaint. 

Quentin was happy. 

He would come home to Eric waiting with food. He would come home to Eric presenting a new book he thought Quentin might like. He would come home to Eric upset, in a dark mood Quentin knew well, and Quentin would comfort him, care for him like he felt no one else could. Quentin came home and felt useful, felt needed, felt irreplaceable, felt loved. Quentin came home to _someone_.

Three months and he felt attachment and love like he hadn’t known in a long time. 

Quentin was happy.

But he didn’t feel like admitting to himself why he really liked Eric so much. Didn’t feel like admitting to himself that, like every relationship before, he was comparing Eric to someone from his past. Quentin didn’t feel like admitting to himself that the reason, the _main reason_ he was happy about being with Eric was because unlike every time before, he’d compared and actually found a match. 

He was Eliot before the bullshit. Eliot before the Beast. The flower who craved attention but shriveled when it got too much. The bright spot in so many lives that felt black inside. He was the boy who was happy and brave and full of life until he remembered how he felt when he was alone and went back to the dark place he couldn’t escape. 

Everyday with Eric was like being back at Brakebills. Quentin felt warm in Eric’s shadow and nestled there. 

Somewhere along the way – three months and twenty-six days as far as Quentin knows – Quentin stopped being enough for Eric.  


And where Eliot would have held on, Eric let go. 

He stood over Quentin – he wouldn’t sit down, which was the first clue – and told him that he thought it’d be best if they stopped seeing each other. It wasn’t working, it hadn’t been for a while and he was sorry.

Quentin didn’t say a word, didn’t need to, because Eric pressed Quentin’s house key into his hand and left immediately. 

Two weeks passed and Quentin still couldn’t figure out if it was Eric he missed or the feeling of having the space filled. He didn’t let himself look for that answer very often. Only when he was trying to sleep did he let himself worry over what could have or should have been and what it meant that neither were. 

Three weeks passed and then Quentin got an email that slipped him a hint to the answer. He wasn’t thinking about Eric so much when he read over the words. No, all he could think was maybe, maybe, maybe I can fill the space with the real thing. Maybe, maybe, maybe this is it. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

**-B-**

Eliot had things to share. 

In the almost four Earth-years since he’d seen Quentin, he’d done a lot of things to be proud of. With Margo’s help, the two of them had turned the once broken Fillory into a thriving community and established themselves as the best rulers Fillory had ever seen. 

Breaking down the resistance they faced when they first took the throne was a multi-year battle that Eliot was grateful he had Margo by his side during. She was an excellent queen. Fierce and strong, the way Eliot had always known her but the years had also taught her how to be gentle and caring with the people of Fillory when she needed to be. Watching her blossom and grow gave Eliot the strength he needed to do the same and together they became great rulers. 

The people adored them, trusted them, praised them, appreciated them in a way that felt like a dream. Every time Eliot thought back to how things were at the start, he was filled with pride over how far they’d come. 

And he and Margo had done it all themselves. 

That Fillory was doing well pleased Eliot but he would be lying if he said his kingdom’s success kept him happy. 

Fen was Fen. Supportive, affectionate, a great friend and confidant, loyal almost to a fault; Eliot was grateful to have her. King Idri even made a good husband; he was stern but a good listener, intelligent, serious but surprisingly funny. The two of them kept Eliot satiated and stimulated in every way and he loved them both fiercely. Idri’s death was a hard blow to Eliot. 

In his mind, he had Fen and Idri tucked under each of his arms and when Idri died, he felt off balance and unsteady, like he’d lost an important limb. 

If Fen and Idri were at Eliot’s sides, Margo was some fixture stood behind to catch him if he fell. They remained as close as they’d always been. Even fights ended with a tight hug because there was nothing stronger than their desire to keep loving each other. She coddled him and he coddled her right back, he cried and she cried with him, if one had a problem, the other had the same one and it was this bond that kept them strong on the days when all they could think about was that their friends had left them. 

Eliot knew they had the button. 

Whenever they wanted to, they could come and visit. But they didn’t. 

Eliot and Margo understood Kady not coming, it didn’t make sense. They’d never known each other well enough. Penny was Penny but surprisingly, he was the one they’d seen most recently. 

Penny would pop in every now and then in the months after the Beast was killed. He’d act as if he was just coming randomly or had blipped there by accident but Eliot and Margo always had hope that he was coming by because in spite of how little he wanted to care, he did want to know how things were going. Once a year since, he’d pop in, poke around and leave. To anyone who knew Penny, that meant something but it still hurt that he never stuck around long.

Quentin’s absence hurt more. 

After the Beast was killed, things were hard. For a few weeks, the three of them stayed close. Fillory was a mess then and so was Quentin. Alice’s death turned him into an unrecognizable husk of the boy Eliot and Margo knew. 

He drank everyday and barely talked. In a different way than Quentin, Eliot and Margo were also hurting from Alice’s death and what it represented and everything that’d happened between them and Alice before she died. But Quentin wasn’t open to grieving with them.

He was furious at the world and what began as a mopey, sad, wounded boy became a loud, angry, hollow eyed depressed man who refused to say much to anyone most days. 

When he _would_ talk, he was sullen and apologetic. On a handful of heavy nights, he found himself in bed with Margo or Eliot or both, the three of them cloudy-headed and frantic for connection. They moved together and explored each other silently, like they had nothing to say and nothing to offer but feeling and the strength they could take from each other. 

One night Quentin found himself in Eliot’s room. Eliot woke to find Quentin standing over him, glassy eyed and quiet and, without waking Fen, he led Quentin back to his own room, sat him down and pulled him close. Quentin’s tears slid down Eliot’s chest as they sat together, not saying a word, not explaining a thing, but communicating more than they ever had. 

If you ask Eliot he will swear to you that he doesn’t remember crying but Quentin will tell you that all he can remember from that night is the hot heat of Eliot’s nose buried in his hair as he sobbed with him. He will tell you that it’s one of the reasons he’s _better_ today because in that moment, he finally believed he wasn’t alone. 

They kissed that night, a wet mess, and then woke the next morning in a tangled heap of bare bodies. They didn’t question it, didn’t mention a word to anyone else, didn’t acknowledge it at all but repeated it every day for the next week until Quentin announced he was leaving. 

He ‘had to’. He would finish school now that he could, he would fix things with Julia and he would come back and visit when possible. 

And he did visit. 

Twice. 

Once a few months Earth-time after he left and then another time in his fourth year at Brakebills when Fillory was just beginning to prosper. He didn’t stay long and didn’t say much. Just that he and Julia were on good terms and she was doing better and he was learning a lot at Brakebills. The whole thing felt like an awkward class reunion between people who’d lost too much time to pick up where they left off. 

But they still loved each other. It was in their eyes. And that knowledge was enough to lessen the blow of unfamiliarity between people who once considered each other family. 

Last year Margo brought herself to ask Penny about Quentin, knowing Eliot wondered but would never ask himself. 

“We don’t talk,” Penny said simply, wandering about the room like sitting would be too permanent. “When he graduated, though, he was good, I guess. Him and Julia stuck together.”

“Did he seem…” Eliot trailed off, not finding the words he was looking for.

“Happy?” Penny finished. “Nah. But when was he ever?” He suddenly looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. 

Margo pursed her lips, annoyed. Sometimes the fact that she was surrounded by so many people who refused to just acknowledge their shitty emotions got to her. It’s not like she was amazing at it but she’d gotten better at not letting the tight-lipped, uncomfortable expression both boys in the room were currently sporting take over her face. 

“Penny, can you just tell us what you know we’re asking?” Margo requested. “Then you can leave like I know you want to.”

Penny stared at her a beat then wet his lips and looked away, almost ashamed. “I didn’t try to talk to him, alright?” he admitted. “He came back to Brakebills, he went to class, he did his work and he managed to graduate before me,” Penny regaled, searching for more to give them. “You never caught him outside without Julia. Like…I don’t know, third year he spoke to me. He looked better…sober. There’s a memorial for Alice,” Penny informs, his head down and his voice low. Margo and Eliot exchanged a look then. They hadn’t heard her name since Quentin left.

“Quentin set it up fourth year by the fountain. Only time you caught him by himself was when he was at the memorial studying. Then, he graduated and I haven’t seen him since. Last I heard he was working in insurance and doing ok.”

**-B-**

_Q,_

_I don’t even know if this is the right Quentin Coldwater, but I mean how many Quentin Makepeace Coldwaters can there be in the world? How many parents would do that to their kid?_

_Anyway, I’m in New York soon and I’d like to see you for….what do old friends do – coffee?_

_This Saturday. My treat. If you actually check your email before then. If you even get this…_

_You know, I was gonna do a tracking spell but that felt…invasive? I know you’re alive though, I checked that much. So if you are Quentin Makepeace Coldwater – the floppy haired one from school who I haven’t seen in years, please call me. Or text. My number’s below._

_If you’re not that Quentin Coldwater then ignore this, I guess, and seriously fuck your parents, dude._

_Eliot._

****

**-B-**

The café Quentin had chosen was familiar and quiet. On Fridays, he purposefully got off one stop early so he could walk home, stopping by the café to just sit and read for a while. Sitting in silence with other people felt like being social without the added pressure of actually doing it. 

Eliot was due to meet him at 4 o’clock so Quentin had enough time to go home and change out of his work clothes. Quentin used the extra bit of time to look presentable, or at least like he hadn’t laid awake the night before being anxious about the meeting. 

He got to the café with 20 minutes to spare and chose a table in the back corner so they could have privacy; a decision he almost immediately regretted, worrying it would send the wrong message to Eliot. He didn’t know what sitting in such solitude would convey to him, or what he wanted Quentin to convey. Quentin stood up to go choose another table but instead shoved into a body as he turned. 

“I’m sor-” he began, stopping short when he recognized Eliot. He still looked the same. _Better, actually_ , Quentin noted. The faint wisps of grey in Eliot’s hair reminded Quentin of the time difference in Fillory and he felt a pang of guilt in his chest. It had been so long for Eliot. His eyes were still wide and light, his cheekbones still attractive, his smile still infectious. 

“Were you about to leave?” Eliot asked, still smiling. He was taking in Quentin’s face as well. He still looked the same, doe-eyed and curious but his hair…He’d traded his overgrown tresses for a cropped look that showcased the face he was constantly trying to cover. It curled around his ears and a bit fell over his forehead. He looked collegiate and put together. 

“No, I was…” and he stopped talking and threw his arms around Eliot. Eliot didn’t hesitate, hugging him back fiercely and they stayed that way long enough to draw a few curious glances. “I’m sorry,” Quentin said, his voice muffled by Eliot’s arm. 

Eliot pulled back to look at him, to grip his face and really look at him. He did look well, much better than the last time they saw each other. “Sorry for what?” he finally asked. 

Quentin sat down and motioned for Eliot to take the seat across from him and then apologized the way he had practiced. “I’m sorry for leaving and for not coming back. I’m sorry for not letting you guys help me and for the way I acted when I was in Fillory. I’m sorry that you had to reach out first.”

Eliot didn’t speak for a long time and Quentin was suffering. He was bracing himself for Eliot yelling and saying he came here to tell him he hated him and he wanted the button back so he could never come to Fillory again. But when Eliot looked up from the table, his face was serene and earnest.

“I’m not mad at you, Q.”

The words were like a balm, soothing the guilty wound that Quentin had kept open for years waiting for the day Eliot and Margo would come and twist the knife. 

“You’re not?”

“Fillory was… _is_ suffocating sometimes,” Eliot confessed. “But you know I haven’t really left?” he asked Quentin. Quentin shook his head. “I’ve come back to Earth a few times just for a break but I always go back. Do you know why?” He paused for only a moment. “Because I breathe better there,” he finished. “I stay in Fillory and I know my place, my purpose, I’m used to it,” he went on, his eyes far off. “I step on Earth and I remember my life here and all the loose ends I never tied. I remember who I was here. I come back to Earth and all I can think about are my mistakes and I can’t breathe, I miss Fillory.”

Eliot finished with a bit of wetness around his eyes and Quentin swallowed hard. He was getting that ‘back at Brakebills’ feeling again, feeling so intensely understood, he felt sick. There was no one better at making Quentin feel delightfully regular than Eliot. 

“So, I get why you wouldn’t want to come back to Fillory given everything it’s tied to,” Eliot continued. “I’m not mad at you, Q. I miss you.”

Quentin had pieced together a tiny speech to give Eliot; an intricate explanation about why he hadn’t visited and how sorry he was but Eliot had snatched everything from Quentin’s brain and regurgitated it much more eloquently than Quentin ever could have.

He was sitting across from someone he’d never met before. A quieter, calmer, more mature version of the boy he once knew. Eliot was doing the same. 

“I had a whole thing planned,” Quentin started. “But you did all the work,” he smiled faintly then exhaled to release some of the tension from his shoulders and met Eliot’s eyes. “I miss you, too.”

To anyone looking on, it was obvious the words meant more, obvious the boys meant to say more with the words. Their hands were inches apart on the wooden tabletop and stayed that way the entire time. Much like the entirety of their relationship, they were a hair apart just needing one boy to make a move and mean it. 

“I heard you’re in insurance,” Eliot offered to fill the silence. Quentin nodded and did his part in the trivial, barebone conversation. 

“Yes. It’s boring but keeps me busy.”

“I bet. Suit and tie and everything?”

“Yes,” Quentin smiled. “Every. Single. Day. It’s nothing like this.” He motioned to Eliot’s outfit. 

It was simple, a black shirt and pants, but still obviously intricately woven and glamorously embellished with gold lining and stitch detailing. He was perfectly normal until you got up close to witness the graceful, fluid nature in which he carried himself. 

Eliot laughed. “I dialed it down!” he defended, making Quentin crack another smile. 

“No, no, you look great. Very relaxedly royal. Shouldn’t there be like secret service with you or something?” Quentin looked around. 

“Actually,” Eliot began and Quentin could tell he was proud. “There’s a surprisingly low amount of people who want me dead,” he bragged. “Fillory is doing really well.”  


Quentin felt bad. He’d know that if he visited. 

“That’s great,” Quentin celebrated. He drew in a breath. “Eliot, I’m just—I’m sorry.”

Eliot fanned him off. “Seriously, Q, I don’t need an apology,” he dismissed. “Margo on the other hand…”

Eliot smiled and Quentin rubbed his hands over his face. “She’s gonna kick my ass the next time she sees me.”

“She’s not gonna kick your—” Eliot paused and thought about it. “She _might_ kick your ass the next time she sees you,” he agreed, laughing and Quentin joined in, more tension dissipating. Eliot watched Quentin, realizing how much he’d missed the crinkles by his eyes and the lines near his mouth when he laughed.

Quentin liked the momentum, wanted to keep it going. “How’s Fen?”

Eliot smiled at the name. “Fen’s good. Amazing, actually. She’s helped out a lot. I don’t think Margo and I could have done it without her. She…” Eliot’s eyes got distant, thinking about her. “I don’t think I would have been able to love Fillory as much as I do if I didn’t see the way she does. You know she was a FU Fighter?”

“A what?” Quentin thought he heard wrong. 

“That was mine and Bambi’s reaction!” Eliot laughed, happy to have gotten the reaction he wanted. “It’s like a Fillorian defense league.” Quentin tried to picture the Fen he remembered doing anything remotely aggressive and couldn’t. 

“Huh. I bet Idri had a laugh about that too.” 

Eliot’s face went blank and Quentin’s stomach dropped. “Idri actually passed a few years ago,” Eliot said stiffly, nodding his head like he was processing the information for the first time as well. 

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, kicking himself. 

Eliot blew out a long breath. “I’m better about it,” he said truthfully. “He went peacefully so,” he shrugged. Idri and Eliot were never in love but forged a great friendship that was invaluable to Eliot. He _was_ better now about the loss but when he thought too hard on the permanence of his disappearance, he was sometimes transported back to that cold day when he discovered Idri dead in bed. 

“What about you?” Eliot questioned after a moment passed. “Have you—are you seeing anyone?”

Quentin blinked and for a second, Eric was sat where Eliot was and he almost convinced himself he was in a fever dream. 

“No,” he said finally. “Not anymore.” He didn’t have much else to say, he was too busy uncomfortably thumbing through memories of Alice in his head because he knew Eliot was too. He knew Eliot wanted to ask about her.

Eliot ripped off the bandaid. “Do you still think about Alice?”

Quentin didn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

They stared at the tabletop for a minute and thought about her together. 

“I’m better with it now,” Quentin revealed when he was ready. “I still think about her and the amazing things she’d be doing right now if…” he trailed off. “But I don’t let it ruin me anymore. I just miss her.”

Eliot nodded. He understood. “Penny told me about the memorial.”

Quentin’s brows rose. Had _Penny_ really been back before him? “Yea,” he cleared his throat. “I put it up fourth year at Brakebills. That’s around when things started going better. I started letting her go. Took a while. I came back to Fillory then, do you remember?”

“Of course,” Eliot said. “You were a bit awkward.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” Quentin explained. “It’s like you said, I came back to Fillory and it was too hard. I didn’t know what to say to you or Margo and it felt like the longer I stayed there, the more all the work I did was unraveling,” he said, shaking his head. “So, like an idiot, I chose not to make myself do the hard thing. Then, too much time passed and I just felt like I couldn’t go back.”

“You’re always welcome to-”

“Are _you_ seeing anyone new-” The boys started at the same time. 

Eliot blinked. Quentin dropped his eyes and squeezed them shut. It had slipped out. He’d been pushing the question, the interest to the back of his mind since Eliot sat down and it had snuck out his lips at the complete wrong time.

Eliot had been dreading this part because he didn’t know how to approach it. When he emailed Quentin, he did so because a single day had not gone by that Quentin was not heavy on his mind. He missed him, he worried about him, and there were days when he desperately needed him. But-

“Yes,” Eliot said, finally answering Quentin’s question. 

But Matt. Matt was a Fillorian guard. He was tall, roughly chiseled, intelligent and charming. He had soft pink lips, wide green eyes and a dimpled smile that always forced Eliot into a good mood. Matt lent an ear when Eliot needed it, found a way to relax him after a long day, gave him good advice without hesitation and space when he could see it was necessary. 

Everyday with Matt was a new adventure. Eliot felt pleasantly lost and questioning. He felt excited to see Matt each day. Matt was kind hearted and multi-faceted, reserved and book smart, strategic and dynamic. He and Eliot scarcely fought, were joined at the hip and made love passionately and spontaneously without obligation, judgement or complaint. 

Eliot should have been happy. He had every reason to be. But he felt something missing.

Where Quentin had found a hole in his life he felt only Eliot could fill, Eliot had found a hole in _himself_ he knew Quentin fit. Before Matt, he’d missed Quentin in an all-encompassing way that he had not limited to romance. 

But one day he woke up beside Matt, the two of them a heap of bare bodies and felt something was off. He felt a pang and an emptiness in his chest he didn’t know how to describe to Matt when he woke and asked what was wrong. 

It was as if his brain, his heart had to feel something startlingly wrong to finally know, without a doubt, what was right. 

It wasn’t Matt. 

He came here for Quentin. He came here to reconnect with someone he felt physically incomplete without. He came knowing he would take Quentin in whatever form, romantic or platonic, that he could get. Because he knew, and Quentin did too, that they made sense together. In every way, they made sense. Definitions and labels could not and never would be able to summarize what they were.

“Are you happy with him?” Quentin brought himself to ask like he’d practiced and decided against the night before. 

“Sometimes,” Eliot answered honestly. Quentin swallowed hard to give his next words room to squeeze from his mouth. 

“Do you love him?”

Eliot shuffled in his seat and his hand slid forward accidentally. His fingertips met Quentin’s finally and both their eyes flew to the table to examine the meeting, mouths open slightly as the sensation flooded through them. 

Eliot turned the question over a few times in his head. He had an answer then he lost it. He had a good response then he changed his mind. He looked at Quentin hard. In his brown eyes he saw a movie of every moment, every touch, every memory they ever had together. 

He missed his body, he missed his laugh, he missed their talks, he missed the sensation of feeling so delightfully regular next to someone. He missed Quentin.  


“Yes,” he said finally. “I just wish he was you.”

Hope swelled in Quentin and settled in his stomach where a flutter of butterflies were starting up. This was the moment, this was the fever dream come true. The one where Eliot would come to him and say he missed him the same way and they’d try. They’d forget the past or mend the past, whichever came first, and they would try. An honest try to love each other the way they both deserved. 

“I’m always welcome?” Quentin asked, turning Eliot’s words back on him. 

Eliot smiled a small smile. “You’re always welcome.”

Feeling confident, Quentin closed the distance and took Eliot’s hand in his. Eliot held on tightly, bringing their hands up to his mouth where he pressed a kiss to Quentin’s knuckles. 

If you ask Quentin he’ll swear he doesn’t remember crying but Eliot will tell you that the best part of that day was seeing the wetness pool over and spill from Quentin’s eyes, unabashedly, as if the two of them were in some bubble all alone and Quentin felt so intensely elated that he couldn’t hold it all in.

“Are you okay?” Eliot had asked, unable to stop himself from smiling.

Quentin swiped at his eyes and choked out a watery laugh. “I’ve never felt better.”

Destiny was a real thing waiting to happen to them. They were not perfect, neither were, but if there was anything that would get them there, it was each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, I just saw a post on tumblr with the dialogue 'do you love him?' 'yes but I wish he were you' and my mind arrived here. I knew it'd be sad, I just didn't know it'd be this sad. But we always get a happy ending. Thanks for reading!


End file.
